


Watershed Moments

by battybatzgirl



Series: Parks and Trek [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Actually everyone is pretty drunk, Drunk Bones, Drunk Jim, Drunken Shenanigans, Getting Together, Humor, It's Worth It I Promise, M/M, Parks and Rec plotlines, Sober Uhura and Spock, it's kind of silly, lots of sass, parks and trek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:43:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11269113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battybatzgirl/pseuds/battybatzgirl
Summary: In which Chekov invents Tribble-Juice, the crew gets wasted, Jim and Bones fight, and Uhura is done with everyone.*Based off Parks and Recreation s3e13 "The Fight"*





	Watershed Moments

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So first of all, I would like to direct everyone to iknewaman's [ Parks and Rec au ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9237734) because it is beautiful and perfect in every way. Also, I just felt the overcoming need to read/write more Drunk!Jim fics. This may or may not turn out to be a series, because the longer I looked at it the longer I noticed Jim has some very Leslie Knope-type qualities in him...
> 
> Anyway. You won't have to know the show to get the plot lines, but it will make it more fun if you do. ;P Enjoy!

Chekov was turning twenty-three. The little navigator was growing up right before his eyes, and if Jim ever tricked himself into becoming a father he’s sure he would feel the same way about his own child maturing and leaving the nest.

Not that Chekov was going anywhere, necessarily. It was about three years into the infamous Five-Year-Mission, but the Enterprise had been scheduled for rudimentary maintenance at Yorktown on the eve of Chekov’s birthday. So naturally, Jim asks what kind of celebration he wants have, since they might as well throw a party because they’ll all be together on shore leave anyway.

He really shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was when little Pavel requests to go to a club.

“You gotta stop calling him little Pavel,” Bones says, shooting him a wry glance over his desk. “Like, don’t even do it in your head. He’s an adult.”

“He’s still young,” Jim protests.

“He’s not your kid,” Bones points out. “You’re not his parent.”

“I’m in charge of him and the crew,” Jim notes. “That makes me kind of like his dad.”

Bones grins toothily. “Does that make Spock his mom?”

Jim blanches, reeling back in the office chair. “No!”

“Yeah,” Bones agrees, still grinning. “If anything, _you’re_ the mom and Spock’s the dad.”

“Shut up,” Jim says, turning his eyes back to his PADD in his lap.

“You’re already basically married,” he continues. “It’s not like everyone hasn’t noticed your crush, you might as well just ask him out already—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Jim hisses, feeling his face burn. The doctor snickers, and Jim straightens his shoulders and clears his throat, attempting to regain composure. “Anyway. The reason I’m here—”

“You mean you didn’t come into my office to pester me?”

“—is to show you these,” Jim finishes, passing the PADD over the desk. “It’s a listing of all your applicants and their resumes.”

“Applicants,” Bones repeats, faintly sounding confused.

“Yes,” Jim affirms, “for your secondary position.”

Now, Bones frowns. “Christine is my second.”

“She’s your Head Nurse. This is for your secondary doctor, to take over when you’re off-duty.”

“Christine takes over when I’m off-duty,” Bones says, now looking concerned. “Jim, are you firing her?”

“What?” Jim says, his eyes widening at the thought. “No! No, no. I’m hiring someone else to be in charge when you’re both occupied in surgeries or whatever. Most of the applicants are stationed on Yorktown, so you’re doing interviews when we’re gonna be stationed there.”

“But that’s shore leave.”

Jim shrugs. “Yeah, but it’ll just take two hours, three max. Besides, Sickbay needs the help, and me and Christine will be there with you in the interviews. I set them up to be right in the hotel’s conference room! And, I scheduled them ten minutes apart, so we’d have a bit of a break to get snacks.”

“Hold on,” Bones says, raising his hands as if to physically make Jim slow down. “Who said I needed a secondary doctor?”

“You did.”

Bones blinks. “I did?”

“You complain all the time about how overrun your staff gets, and how stressed out you and Christine are when there’s a crisis or outbreak and you’re the only people in charge,” he explains. “I just pulled a few strings and took the liberty of setting everything up for you. Some of these candidates are really good, by the way. They come with the highest recommendations, you’ll want to think of really great questions to grill them with.”

Bones’ eyes narrow. “Look, Jim, I appreciate this and all—”

“I know,” Jim cuts him off, standing. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“That’s not—”

“Just don’t stay out too late with Chekov’s birthday tonight. I’ll even leave early to help you prep!” Jim smiles, and shoots him a wink as he exits. “See you later!”

*

“I do not understand why going to this celebration is required.”

Jim shoots Spock a Look—the _You-Are-Being-A-Difficult-Vulcan-And-I-Know-You-Are-Doing-It-On-Purpose_ Look, to be precise.

“You know it’s not required,” he says, “but it’s too late to back out now.” They are gathering the crew to get into a shuttle, taking them from the fancy hotel Starfleet had given them accommodations in to the less-fancy club Chekov requested to go to. It’s already dark outside, but it’s always dark outside because Yorktown is a hub in the middle of space with no light. So far in the lobby, it’s Jim, Spock, Uhura, and Sulu. Chekov, Bones, and Scotty took an earlier shuttle out, and would be meeting them there.

“Spending a night in a bar is not an acceptable way for me to spend my time,” Spock says, still sounding too stiff. He looks even stiffer in his gray sweater, certainly not like a person about to go clubbing. But fuck it all, he still looked hot. Literally and figuratively.

“C’mon Commander,” Sulu teases as Chapel and Gaila arrive in the lobby. “You don’t wanna watch how long it takes for Jim to get kicked out of another bar?”

“Hey,” Jim says sharply, pointing his finger at the pilot. “My record has been cleaned.”

“Oh, we know,” Sulu says, grinning as Gaila snickers behind him. “We’ve all heard _that_ story.”

Jim whirls around and turns his finger on Uhura. “ _You_.”

Uhura smirks and her eyes flash in a challenge. “Me.”

Before Jim can question her further, the last person they are waiting for shows up. Even though Jaylah wasn’t technically part of the crew of the _Enterprise_ , she was basically part of what Jim called The Family. She was on leave from the Academy, shadowing some of the engineers on Yorktown when Scotty called and invited her to celebrate.

“Jaylah!” Uhura greets, quickly moving past Jim and going to hug her. “Good to see you.”

“Good to seeing you too,” Jaylah says excitedly, her smile so bright it trumps her still broken Standard.

“Okay,” Jim says, clapping his hands together. “We ready to go, people?”

He gets a few halfhearted “yeah”s and “woo”s. He nearly rolls his eyes—he really needed to work on boosting his team’s moral. Maybe it was something he could bring up with Bones during the hiring process. _On a scale of 1 to 10, how likely are you to devote your entire heart and soul to your crew?_

But maybe that was a bit too much to ask in an interview for a potential substitute for his CMO.

As they start ambling out of the lobby and toward the shuttle, Spock slides up next to him. No matter how many times Spock got near him, Jim can never get used to the nice, solid feel of Vulcan he provides. His stomach flips and he immediately goes to school his reaction—they had this weird, almost-relationship thing going on right now. They had somewhat admitted they liked each other and had kissed, but Jim had yet to make anything official. It wasn’t that he was scared, per say…

 _Terrified_ would be a more accurate word.

Because Spock was literally perfect in every aspect of the word, and Jim was…not perfect. The fact that someone like Spock would even take an interest in him, none the less offer himself as a devoted lover scares the absolute shit out of him. And whenever Jim Kirk felt challenged by an emotion he really didn’t want to deal with, he threw himself into his work and ignored it until it either passed or got worked out some other way.

Now, he holds back a shiver at Spock’s proximity and turns to look up at him, preparing to deal with some kind of annoyance the Vulcan was facing in the light of illogical humans.

“Jim,” he murmurs, “I do not wish to stay out all night.”

There it is.

“I don’t want to either,” Jim assures him quietly. “I’m going back early to help Bones prep for his interviews tomorrow.” Then, Jim offers him a soft smile. “But I know you want to go. You love Chekov as much as all of us.”

Spock doesn’t deny it, but takes a slow measured breath as The Family begins to load up into the shuttle. Jim beams at him and climbs in, and Spock quickly follows. Jim tells the driver where they’re headed—some place called The Second Sun, which sounds promising. He turns back around and faces his crew, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Okay!” Jim says brightly. “When I say _team_ , you say…”

He’s met with blanks stares. Sulu looks uncertain as he warbles, “…Go?”

Jim shakes his head. “No, _Enterprise_.”

“How were we supposed to know that?” Uhura chides.

“None of you remember?” Jim asks, suddenly stumped. “We did this at Scotty’s birthday.”

“No we didn’t,” Sulu protests.

“This is the first time you have attempted this chant,” Spock tells him.

“Yeah,” Gaila agrees from the back.

“ _You_ weren’t even at Scotty’s birthday party,” Jim snaps. “Fine, let’s try again. Team—”

“Team!” Jaylah says loudly, overlapping him.

“ _Enterprise_ ,” Sulu and Chapel chorus lamely. Uhura doesn’t try to hide her snicker.

Jim turns around and slumps down into his seat. So much for boosting moral. “All of you are terrible.”

*

The Second Sun is a very modern bar, like the rest of Yorktown, big and open on the inside and lots of tall tables and fluffy looking couches. The lighting is shit, as comes with all clubs no matter what planet or Starfleet base you’re on. Red, purple, and yellow strobe lights flash across the dancefloor every few minutes, and the music is so loud the bass shakes the walls.

Jim has no idea where Chekov heard of this place, or whether he’s been here before or not. But either way, it seems like it’s going to be a promising night.

Scotty and Chekov are by the bar, both holding half-empty glasses of an unknown amber drink. Jim glances around but doesn’t see Bones, so he reasons that he must have gone back to the hotel early to start working on his interview prep. When he reaches the bar, he claps his hand on Scotty’s shoulder and reaches across to ruffle Chekov’s curls.

“Hey guys,” he greets. Scotty nods to him but his eyes slide over to Jaylah, and he immediately moves to mingle with her. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gaila and Chapel make a move toward the dancefloor. “Happy almost birthday! How’s it turning out so far?”

“Good, sir,” Chekov says, smiling so wide his dimples show. “I knowe de barman and he let me design my own drink for de eewening.”

Sulu comes up behind them. “Really?” He sounds impressed.

Chekov nods, one lone curl bouncing across his forehead. He gestures to the amber liquid in his glass. Jim notices that is seems to sparkle in the dim light.

“I call it Tribble-Juice,” he announces proudly, like a parent showing off a child. A liquid, alcoholic child.

“Tribble-Juice?” repeats Uhura, raising an eyebrow. At her side, Spock mirrors the gesture. (Even though they hadn’t been dating for over a year, sometimes they were still so in synch it was creepy.)

“That sounds like somebody squeezed a tribble until it’s blood and guts poured out into the glass,” Jim says.

Sulu balks. “That’s disgusting!”

“ _They’re_ disgusting,” Jim reasons.

Uhura narrows her eyes at the glass. “Is…is there glitter in there?”

“Yes,” Chekov nods, and starts listing off his fingers, “and Bajoran gin, Cardassian kahlua, brown sugar, Russian wodka—”

“Wait,” Jim says cautiously, “some of that is illegal. Who let you do this again?”

“What’s the percentage of alcohol?” Sulu asks at the same time.

Chekov’s eyes dart between Jim and Sulu, before he turns to the bar and takes a bottle of what must contain Tribble-Juice and pours it into some empty glasses. “Eet contains sewenty-five percent alcohol,” he says, casually ignoring Jim’s question, “but there ees plenty of cofvee to stay conscious.”

“ _Seventy-five?_ ” Sulu gapes.

“Coffee?” Jim repeats, his eyebrows shooting up.

Chekov hands Sulu and Jim each a glass of the sparkly liquid, and Spock murmurs, “That is not a wise level of liquor for humans to ingest.”

“Scotty likes eet,” Chekov shrugs.

“Good enough for me.” Sulu knocks back a shot of the liquid and nearly chokes as he swallows. “Holy mother of God!”

Jim follows suit. The liquid courses like tingling fire down his throat, but the aftertaste is sweet and strong. He sucks in a sharp breath, the sting of the liquor hitting him instantly. But despite everything, it’s _good_. He coughs, then shoves his glass in Uhura’s direction.

“Oh, no,” she says, eyeing the glass doubtfully. “I think one ounce of that would kill me.”

“I have never been more grateful for my biological tolerance for alcohol,” Spock agrees in the same disapproving tone as her.

Jim nearly sticks his tongue out at him, but then thinks that wouldn’t be very captain-like behavior, and decides against it.

“So Pavel,” Sulu starts, “anything you want to bring in your new year of life?”

Chekov considers this, then says, “In Russia, eet ees traditional for a man to play pool on his tventy-first birthday. Since I missed mine do to duty, I figure tvvo years difference ees not bad.”

“Pool?” Jim repeats, frowning. “Like, that twenty-first century game with the golf balls?”

“Cue balls,” Spock corrects.

“Golf balls are for golf, Jim,” Uhura chimes in, smirking.

“ _Okay_ ,” Jim snaps, glaring at both of them. Really, whenever they stood so close to each other it was like they were on the same brain wave. “I don’t need sass from the peanut gallery.” He doubts the tradition exists—it sounds a little too ridiculous to be fact, but a lot of what Chekov said about Russia seems a little too ridiculous to be fact, and who was Jim to judge.

“Dis bar has an authentic felt pool table vith antique balls and sticks,” Chekov continues, and suddenly his preference for this strange club makes sense. “I vould like to try dem.”

“I’ll play you,” Sulu offers, and Chekov beams. He snatches the bottle of the Tribble-Juice off the counter and they disappear into the crowd.

“I should probably head out soon, too,” Jim says, but to who he’s not really sure. “I gotta go help Bones get ready for all his interviews tomorrow. He’s probably already back at the hotel working right now.”

Scotty, who had ambled back over to grab another drink, frowns at him. “McCoy isn’t at te hotel,” he says. “He’s been over there chattin’ up a Andorian lass fer ta past fifteen minutes.”

Jim’s eyes scan over the crowd to follow where Scotty was pointing, and sure enough, there was the Good Doctor—not prepping paperwork, like he should have been, but making a tall blue woman giggle. (Not that Jim had any problem with the tall, blue, or woman part. He enjoyed _tall_ , had frequently partook in _women_ , but his color preference was decidedly green.)

He frowns, then strides over to the couch where his best friend was. The girl gets up and leaves just as he gets close. Perfect timing.

“Bones,” he greets, catching the doctor mid-sip of what looks like a glass of Tribble-Juice. Chekov was really good at marketing. “What are you doing here?”

Bones wipes at his mouth and throws one arm over the back of the couch. He looks perfectly relaxed, and not as on-top of it as he should have been when about to interview a new second to his medstaff. “Can’t a man enjoy shore leave without thinking about fifty pounds of paperwork he has to do later?”

Jim offers him a smile, but it’s cautious. “Not when you’re supposed to be reviewing the applicants you’re interviewing tomorrow morning.” He sits on the couch on the other side, a small table separating them. 

The side of Bones’ mouth twitches. “Yeah, about that,” he drawls. “I’m not interviewin’ anybody.”

Jim frowns, pausing where he raised the glass to his lips. “What?” Surely he misheard, what with this ridiculous music blasting from the speakers.

“I’m not interviewing anybody,” Bones repeats, shrugging. “We don’t really need the help, Christine and I got most of the staff covered and hiring someone new would just put pressure on our work schedule.”

Jim sets down his drink. “You don’t have the medstaff covered,” he says, like it’s obvious, because _it is._ “You’re overbooked and stressed all the time and hiring a secondary doctor to take over for you is the”—Jim stops, catching himself just before he says the word _logical_ —“easiest solution.”

But Bones doesn’t look at him, instead glaring down into his glass. He licks his lips and throws back the rest of the sparkly amber liquid, grimacing as he swallows.

“Kid knows his liquor,” he grunts.

“Apparently there’s coffee in it, too,” Jim points out helpfully.

Bones nods and stands abruptly, saying a short, “I’m gettin’ another” before moving back toward the bar. Jim watches him go and takes a swallow of his drink. The alcohol overwhelms his senses, almost to the point of making it so he could literally see a fuzzy little creature in front of his face getting squeezed to death and its liquid innards being drained into his glass.

Maybe his tolerance isn’t what it used to be.

Bones steps back over and sits down where he was, sliding a glass of Tribble-Juice across to him. Jim sips to get the rest of his first glass down and takes the second one.

“Have you even looked at the candidates?” he presses, never one to give up easily. “How do you know you don’t want to interview them if you haven’t looked at their resumes?”

The doctor’s jaw clenches, the little vein around his neck becoming visible in the dim light and popping once.

“Wait a second,” Jim says suddenly. “You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Bones denies quickly.

“Yes, you are,” Jim insists. “You’re at a bar, but you’re being grumpier than usual.”

Bones glares at him over his glass, but doesn’t say a word. Jim’s eyes narrow and he scoots forward on the couch. “You’re doing that thing when you get mad at me and you don’t tell me why.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Remember The Fight?”

Bones’ eyes widen slightly in recognition, so it is safe to assume that he did, in fact, remember The Fight. The Fight was legendary, going way back to their Academy days. Jim and Bones got under each other’s skin on a regular basis—they picked and teased and bickered, but it was all done with an underlying knowledge that neither actually meant the words they snapped. But when it came to The Fight, referenced so with capital letters, _nothing_ was sacred.

There had been no boundaries. No take backs, no immediate _I-didn’t-mean-it-like-that-_ s, no apologies. Neither friend had spoken to each other for three days, and had gone to practically theatrical proportions, with Jim making dramatically loud exits whenever Bones walked into a class they shared or Bones screaming across the Mess how terrible of hygiene Jim Kirk had. Naturally it escalated into a prank war, which got so intense they both nearly set the dorms on fire, which lead to the Personal Housing Assistant locking them both in a room for disciplinary actions, which lead to more argument, which lead to them making up.

But the three days when Jim thought Bones hated him…those had been the worst days of his life.

(Well. Aside from Tarsus. And Pike’s funeral. And that time Spock choked him. And when he got sprayed in the face by a plant and had to go through this weird phase of wanting to fuck anything and everything that moved because it messed up his hormones so bad.

Actually, Jim goes through a lot of shit. But, whatever. You get the point.)

“It’s stupid you still call it that,” Bones tells him, going back to The Fight.

“No it isn’t,” Jim says, now a little miffed. “You knew exactly what I was talking about.”

Bones shakes his head. “Okay, but I’m not upset.”

“Then why aren’t you going to the interviews tomorrow?” Bones opens his mouth, but Jim plows on. “I looked all of the applicants up myself and did extensive research. Most come straight out of the Academy, and a few are already being requested to be put on other ships. Obviously none of them are as good as the _Enterprise_ , but I want you to have first pick because medical needs to be in the best shape it can be and—”

“You’re a steamroller!” Bones interrupts loudly, snapping Jim out of it. “You plow over me and everyone else all the time when you think you’re right. You might be captain, but you can’t micromanage the fuck out of every department whenever you feel like it! You don’t have medical training, Jim. You aren’t qualified to choose who gets to take over when I’m off-duty.”

Jim blinks, then frowns as something hot rises in his chest. “But you’re always complaining about how overrun the medstaff is,” he says. “I thought I was helping.”

“Stop helping,” Bones snaps darkly. “You’re making my life harder.”

They both stare at each other for a moment, the pounding music of the club reverberating off the walls and filling the silence.

“I’m not mad,” Jim lies, his tone heated.

“I’m not mad either,” Bones shoots back.

They both take shots of the Tribble-Juice, the poison slipping down Jim’s throat like acid.

*

It doesn’t take long for them to start fighting again.

“It’s just been so long since we’ve had a conversation that doesn’t revolve around you or Spock,” Bones complains. “I miss when it was just _us_. I like hanging out with you, but you make it hard to want to sometimes.”

“You’re acting like I make it all about me all the time,” Jim argues. “I don’t do that!”

Bones snorts. “Says the kid who batted his eyelashes and became the youngest captain in Starfleet history.” He takes a gulp from his glass and leans forward. “Admit it, you wouldda slept your way to the top if Nero hadn’t given you the chance to actually prove yourself in front of all those admirals.”

Jim’s jaw falls open. “ _What?!_ ” (His voice may or may not have gone up a few octaves. Data insufficient.)

“You heard me.”

“Are you calling me a slut?” (His voice is still too high, but Jim doesn’t really care.)

Bones smirks. “I ain’t callin’ you somebody to bring home to your momma after church.”

Jim shakes his head, reeling from the ludicrous metaphor. “I am _not_ a slut,” he cries. “Everything I do, I do for the ship.”

Leaning back in the couch cushions, Bones starts ticking off his fingers. “Edith Keeler, Marta, that Romulan commander chick—”

“That was Spock!” Jim splutters.

“But it was still unnecessary,” Bones insists. “You couldda easily negotiated without locking lips with anybody. You’re not in Starfleet to make out with people.”

“I don’t see _you_ acting all prim and proper with _your_ lips,” Jim snaps, now a bit caddy. “I’ve caught you with Carol Marcus.”

“At least I acknowledge _my thing_ like a healthy human being instead of stealing kisses in dark corners of the ship when you think no one else is looking.”

“I saved the fucking planet! _Multiple times_ ,” Jim cries, waving his arms around and splashing alcohol across the table. “Including your ass. Just because I want to go slow in a relationship shouldn’t put me on trial here! And no offence, but _I’m_ the one with the IQ tests off the charts.”

Bones snorts. “No offence, but _maybe_ the reason why you’re going slow with Spock is because you’re too afraid to admit you’re in love with him.”

“ _No offence_ but your relationship advice sucks ass because the last one you had ended in divorce!” Jim shouts back.

“Offence!” Bones declares, pointing an accusing finger. “You _know_ that wasn’t my fault! You’re bein’ rude!”

“Yeah, well…You’re _southern_ ,” Jim warbles, wishing he could think of a better comeback.

Bones whips his head over his shoulder and calls blindly into the crowd, “Christine!” A few beats later, the blonde appears at the side of the couch. “Gimme five more shots of this trumble-juice.”

“Tribble-Juice,” Jim corrects snootily.

Bones shoots him a glare. “Fuck off.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Jim sneers, standing much too fast and causing the room to spin. He stumbles away from the couch and doesn’t get very far before he nearly slams his face into the chest of his First.

“Spock,” he says, blinking in surprise.

“Captain,” Spock returns, concern clearly displayed features. “Are you well?”

Jim wobbles dangerously a moment but anchors himself on Spock’s shoulder. Spock had _great_ shoulders. Thin, but broad, like something he could definitely hold on to whenever he was bouncing on Spock’s—

“Jim,” Spock prompts again, ever the studious officer. “You are inebriated.”

“’M fine,” Jim garbles, shaking his head. “Wanna dance. Dance with me.”

Spock’s eyebrow twitches. “I do not think that would be wise given your current state—”

“Forget it,” he interrupts bitterly. He lets go of Spock and turns around, catching sight of a familiar afro of red curls and green skin. “Gaila!”

The Orion turns and slides closer. “You called?”

“Dance up on me,” Jim says, trying to make his voice sound as Captain-y as possible. Gaila shoots Spock a smug look and takes Jim’s hands and places them on her hips.

“Yes, sir,” she purrs, and leads him toward the dancefloor.

*

It has been seven point fifteen minutes since Jim had disappeared into the crowd with Gaila. Not that Spock is counting. Or brooding in the corner, glaring at the dancefloor, unable to tear his eyes away from when he would randomly get a view of his captain as someone moved out of the way. Jim’s hands on Gaila’s waist. Gaila’s arms wrapped around his neck. Her red mouth pressed against his ear.

Hissing under his breath, Spock tears his eyes away. Jim hardly knew what he was doing in a state like this, but still held the freedom to do what he pleased. It was not Spock’s place to storm over and toss the human over his shoulder and cart him away, like he very much wanted to do.

Because that would indicate feelings of jealousy. And Vulcans did not get jealous.

Though perhaps he should remind the lieutenant that the use of Orion pheromones on susceptible creatures such as male humanoids was strictly forbidden under Starfleet law.

“Commander,” a new voice says by his side. Turning, Spock sees a dazed looking Jaylah with an odd expression in her eyes. “I thought James T. is your mate. Why is he not with you?”

Spock takes an even breath. “Our employment makes our situation…complicated.”

“Oh,” she says simply. It’s clear she wants him to elaborate, but he does not. Instead, she shifts closer and offers, “You should role play.”

Spock’s head snaps to her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Role play,” she repeats, as if the solution was obvious. “It will ease tension from your mind. Create a scenario that he is your superior and sexual relations are forbidden because you work for him.”

Spock stares at her. “That is our exact situation.”

Jaylah’s eyes flash in amusement and perhaps intoxication. “Be kinky,” she shrugs. “Say you have addition to authority.”

Despite his Vulcan training, he feels his face burn. For the first time that night, Spock is thankful for the dim lighting in the club. Before he can say anything else, Chekov runs by in what looks like a non-regulation jacket made of bear fur, Sulu chasing after him with a cue stick held aloft like a sword.

Spock decides he doesn’t want to ask.

Uhura slides up next, toing a woozy-looking Scotty by the upper arm. “Hey,” she says over the music, “You sober?”

“I am perfectly alert,” he informs her, raising an eyebrow at the engineer’s disheveled appearance. The buttons of his shirt are mismatched, as if he had undone them and rebuttoned them in the wrong holes. His left shoe is missing and his hair is sticking up on one side. Under his breath, he seems to be muttering the lyrics to some kind of Scottish drinking song.

“Good,” Uhura nods. “I need backup.” Then, she turns to Jaylah. “Go help Scotty find his shoe. I think he’s been over by the bar, but don’t let him drink anymore.”

Jaylah nods and takes Scotty in the exact place where Uhura’s hand once was. She gently leads him away toward the bar.

“Chekov’s Tribble-Juice is basically rat poison,” Uhura shouts. “Everybody’s smashed. If this goes on for much longer, Starfleet PR is gonna kill us.”

Spock nearly sighs in relief. “I find ending this endeavor an agreeable suggestion.”

Uhura snorts. “Okay, I’ve got Scotty and Jaylah, and I can get Gaila and Christine off the dancefloor. Figure out what the hell Sulu and Chekov are doing and try to stop it. I have no idea where Jim or McCoy are, but once we get everybody else loaded in the car we can look for them.”

Nodding, he slips into the crowd in the direction he saw both navigators run in earlier. To his right, a Andorian falls and knocks over a table, the crash barely heard over the thumping music.

Unacceptable.

*

Jim finds him again just as he heads toward the bathroom.

“Great,” Bones mutters, “I can’ even piss without your approval?”

Jim frowns and sways, or maybe it’s Bones that sways, or maybe they’re both standing perfectly still and everything else around them is swaying. He can’t really tell at this point.

“If you’re worried about someone else working with Christine, it doesn’t matter,” Jim tosses out. “I already talked to her, she’s fine with it.”

Bones scowls at him. “You talked to my Head Nurse before you talked to me?” He feels a tingling rising in his chest, but he can’t decide if it’s anger or gas. “Are you tryin’ to undermine me?”

Jim shakes his head, his hair loose and whipping across his forehead. “No,” he says. “That’s not…”

A man roughly shoves between them as he exits the restroom.

“Excuse me,” Jim shouts after him, “’M the fuckin’ Captain of the fuckin’ _Enterprise_!”

“And that means we all gotta listen to you,” Bones snaps.

“Yes,” Jim confirms automatically, then his face scrunches up. “No. No, just—” He lets out an aggravated breath and flops his arms around in the air. “Why are you being so problo—promao—problematic?”

“I’m not as _problematic_ as that half-blooded tight ass you call your boyfriend,” Bones sneers. “But you can’ even call ‘im your boyfriend because you’re too preoccupied with ruinin’ my department so you won’t have to face your feelings!”

Jim glares at him, his eyes fiery but his lips pulled down in a pout. “You’re stupid ‘n you’re a jerk ‘n you’re a stupid jerk,” he announces, then whirls around dramatically and stomps into the bathroom.

Bones makes a noise of offence. And really, an insult that pathetic shouldn’t have made him angry, but for some reason it did. “Don’t wa—walk away from me, you brat!” He storms through the door after him. The blonde is backed up against the sink, holding onto the counter for support, his blue eyes now wide and glistening with tears.

“I don’ understand how it’s my fault,” Jim hiccups pathetically.

Bones sighs, a heaviness weighing down on his shoulders. “It’s not your fault _all_ the time,” he tries to console. “It just is _most_ of the time.”

“I’m a good person,” Jim insists furiously, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Look, ‘m sorry I tried to hire someone t’ help you, but you’re act—acting ungrateful, and ’m doin’ this for you.”

“I’m not sayin’ I’m ungrateful,” Bones refutes bitterly, “but you think you can do whatever you want sometimes and you just _can’t_. You don’t think I know what my department needs? You don’t think I’d _come to you_ if I needed help? I’m not _always_ the stupid jerk.”

Jim lets out a frustrated huff and tugs on his hair. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he clarifies. “I meant you’re _being_ stupid and you’re _acting_ like a jerk.” Then he sniffs and pushes himself off the counter, clasping Bones’ face between his hands. “You’re my best friend. You’re my brother.” He sniffs again and wails, “I love you, Len!”

Then he turns to the side and vomits, still holding on to Bones.

“I threw up on you,” Jim mutters weakly.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Bones responds, but in the proverbial or physical way, he’s not entire sure.

“Oh my God,” says a new voice, and it takes Bones a second to figure out that it was Uhura standing in the doorway. He jolts back in surprise and Jim flounders without his support, stumbling and barely catching himself against the counter.

“Spock, I found them!” Uhura calls over her shoulder.

“Wha’ are you doin’ in here?” Bones demands in shock. “You can’t be here!”

“Is she a ghost?” Jim asks, staring at Uhura with wide doe eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, but half of her face is quirked up in amusement. “I wish I had a holo to get this. You’re both wasted.”

Bones hiccups and Jim bristles. “Am not,” he argues, trying to take a step forward but one of his knees ends up buckling. He’s awkwardly crouched on the floor, still half-hanging on to the sink when Spock appears in the door.

“’M the captain,” Jim says to no one in particular. “Tot—totally ready for duty.”

Uhura snickers and her eyes trail over to Bones. She looks at his legs, still half covered in vomit, and frowns.

“Get him in the shuttle,” she instructs to Spock, jerking her chin at Jim. “I’ll clean him up and meet you there.”

Spock nods and smoothly steps past her, sweeping Jim up into his arms. The blonde makes a squawking noise and flails, crying out, “Help! I’m being abducted by an alien!”

“Jim,” Spock chides quietly, his lips ghosting across Jim’s temple. “Hush.”

Jim promptly shuts up and goes still, staring at Spock in awe as if he had never seen him before.

“Unbelievable,” Uhura mutters, rolling her eyes as Spock exits the room with an armful of Captain. She turns to Bones. “You okay to walk?”

“Yeah,” Bones says, and _then_ he throws up.

*

Spock has carried the Captain a number of times in a number of positions, both on missions and on occasions when loses consciousness at his workstation from overstressing himself, but he this is the first time he has carried him when he was intoxicated.

“Your face ‘ss pretty,” Jim tells him earnestly, “but sometimes I wanna smack you in the eyebrows.”

Spock doesn’t like it.

Once outside of the club and free from the shouting music, Spock is relieved to be able to hear himself think again and is finally able to focus on the task at hand. The shuttle that holds the rest of their crew is parked and hovering just off the ground, the door to the passenger’s side open. Spock can see Jaylah, Scotty, and Sulu in the front with Chekov draped across their laps, still in his fur jacket and looking more or less like a Terranean dog. When he gets closer he can see that Gaila and Chapel are huddled together in the back, Chapel’s face buried into Gaila’s neck.

The effects of Orion pheromones were not limited to humanoid men, it seems.

“Look!” Scotty calls from inside. “Our fearless leader, Captain Perfect Hair!”

Jim sneers at him, attempting to look imposing while still being carried like a bride. “You’re just jealous ‘cause blondes are sexier!”

From the back of the shuttle, Chapel whoops loudly.

“Damn straight!” shouts Gaila, overlapping her.

“You broke my eardrum,” Sulu moans, his head rolling back to the seat’s headrest.

“You BROKE his EARDRUM,” Chekov repeats loudly, causing everyone in the shuttle to groan. “ _Zatknis!_ ”

It’s then that Uhura comes out to the curb, half dragging McCoy at her side. Jim tenses in his arms, and the second they lay eyes on each other they start at it again.

“Mouth breather!”

“Old man!”

“Son-of-a-bitch!”

“Stick in the mud!”

“Corn-fed hick!”

Jim gasps and reels in offence. “Take that back!”

“Really?” Uhura says flatly. “That’s what gets you?”

“Spock,” Jim says dangerously, not taking his eyes off McCoy. “Put me down so I can punch Bones and throw up and maybe not in that order.”

“Like you’d be able to hit me,” McCoy jeers. “You’re aim is shit.”

“My aim is great!” Jim protests.

“No it’s not,” chorus Chekov, Jaylah, and Scotty from inside.

Jim starts squirming with more abandon now, but it doesn’t budge Spock’s hold. “ _Spock_ ,” he whines, sounding very much like an impatient child. “Lemme go! ‘S an order!”

“You are in no position to be giving orders,” Spock tells him dryly.

Jim leers up at him. “You could put me in a position and give me orders.”

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” Uhura cries, throwing her hands up in the air. She grabs McCoy’s shoulders and starts yanking him toward the shuttle. “You, get in.”

McCoy bristles. “I’m not goin’ anywhere with _him_ ,” he spits.

“Spock,” she says, her tone sounding similar to the one his mother used just before she lost her temper, “call another shuttle and take Jim back. _Separately_.”

Jim sticks out his tongue and makes a sound like _nyah_ , and Spock totes him away down the curb before there could be any more bickering. He hails another shuttle cab and shifts most of Jim’s weight into one of his arms as he opens the door and manhandles his captain inside.

“You’re strong,” Jim whines as he gets in, as if pointing out their obvious biological differences was upsetting to him. “ _Damn_ it.”

Spock informs the driver of their destination, then turns back to Jim. “I hardly see how my physical strength is a hindrance to you.”

“I can’t find anything wrong w—with you,” Jim tells him, pawing at his face and projecting sparks of drunken emotion. “You’re too per—perfect.”

The shuttle smoothly glides away from the curb, but Jim still knocks into his chest at the sudden movement. Spock straightens him by the shoulders, but Jim latches on to his arm and holds on like an octopus.

“How many alcoholic beverages did you consume?” Spock asks, attempting to remove him but ultimately giving up.

“Seve—eight?” Jim says, his face screwed up in concentration. “I dunno.”

“Too many,” Spock deduces, fighting to keep his voice even as Jim nuzzled his nose into his neck.

“’M handling it,” Jim assures him, his lips wet and sloppy against Spock’s skin. “’M chill. Got this.”

Spock is not convinced. He glances out the window of the shuttle to the city lights surrounding them, then looks back at the human. Jim’s anger is still present, a throbbing irritation that is hiding just below the surface of his skin, projecting into Spock through the contact.

“Why do you hold animosity toward the doctor?”

Jim jerks, moving up so fast the crown of his head knocks into Spock’s jaw. Jim looks stunned for a second, then hastily apologizes.

“I don’ wanna talk about it,” he says.

“Very well,” Spock relents, absentmindedly rubbing at his chin. Jim looks as if he wants to lean back on his shoulder, then thinks better of it and shuffles down to lay horizontally in the seat, plopping his head on Spock’s thigh.

Spock’s eyes go wide and he holds his breath, staying as still as possible in his seat. If he goes against his Vulcan training and blushes, there is no way Jim would ever remember it.

“Dick,” Jim says abruptly, and it takes Spock two heart-stopping seconds to realize he’s talking about McCoy. “I try to be nice and he insults my captaining skills.” His voice becomes thicker, sounding dangerously close to crying again, and bright eyes turn up to him.

“Am I a steamroller?”

And Spock hasn’t the slightest clue as to what _that_ means, whether it be a human term he has yet to hear or rather something Jim’s drunken mind has just come up with, but he shakes his head.

“You do not resemble any part of industrial machinery,” Spock replies gently, hoping for the best.

Jim nods, evidently satisfied with this answer. “Thanks, Spock.” A beat, then, “I like you. Like, _like-_ like you. Maybe I love you, ’m not sure.”

Spock’s mouth hangs open in a very un-Vulcan like manner for a moment before he collects himself. “Jim, perhaps you should wait to make such confessions until you are sober.”

Jim nods again. “Probably a good idea. You’re so good at things. And ideas. You always have good ideas. The best ideas.”

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock stresses.

“Sorry,” he says. He turns his head back and rests his cheek on Spock’s thigh. “I just wanna go to bed.”

Spock sighs in relief when the shuttle pulls up to the curb of their hotel. “ _That_ is a good idea.”

*

_“Commander.”_

_“Commander.”_

_“Commander Spock.”_

_“Come in, Commander Spock.”_

_“Wake up!”_

Spock blindly grabs the communicator from his bedside table and furiously whips it open. “ _What_ , Nurse Chapel?”

He normally would have more decorum when speaking to a co-worker, but Jim refused to fall asleep until he knew Spock knew he was sorry for headbutting him, which Spock found both endearing and annoying, as Jim kept goading him to talk more. Eventually Jim fell asleep, and Spock carefully situated him in a position so he would not harm himself unconsciously before slipping back into his own room for the night. When he glances at the clock flashing on the desk, it reveals he was only asleep for four point two hours. While normally that would be an acceptable amount of rest for a Vulcan, Spock finds himself exhausted from dealing with his captain’s drunken endeavor’s the night before.

 _“You have to get Len up,”_ Chapel says. _“I made a hypo for the Captain and am in the process of getting him dressed. We have interviews in less than an hour, they both need to be somewhat conscious.”_

Spock nearly groans in aggravation and rubs a hand down his face. “Why must this task fall to me?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as childish as he feels.

 _“Because Len listens to you,”_ she explains simply. _“And everyone else is hung over.”_

Spock vaguely wants to ask when McCoy started listening to him, but decides now is not the best time for such higher trains of thought.

 _“Get him to hypo himself and get down to the conference rooms,”_ she continues. _“And be careful, he might try to punch you if you surprise him. He’s jumpy when he’s hungover.”_

Spock blinks. “I—”

_“Chapel out!”_

This time, Spock does groan in aggravation. He hauls himself up out of bed and makes himself look presentable, then steps out into the hall toward McCoy’s room. Once he reaches the door, he raps twice with his knuckles.

No answer.

Spock raises his hand again and knocks again, a little louder this time. He gets rewarded when a disgruntled looking CMO opens the door. His hair is wild, looking as if a bird had landed there and tried to make a nest in the middle of the night, and there are dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He is still in the clothes from the club.

“Doctor,” Spock nods.

“Fuck,” is his intelligent response.

Spock glances down and his eyebrows raise in surprise. “Why are you wearing multiple layers of pants?”

“I thought somebody was gonna steal them,” McCoy says, sounding confused as he looks down at himself.

Spock wants to point out how illogical it is to think that simply wearing the pants when someone was intent on stealing them would be a defendable action, but he wearily remembers what Chapel warned him and stays silent.

“May I come in?” he asks instead.

“Only if you’re quiet,” McCoy says roughly, but steps away from the door and shuffles back over to his bed, flopping face first into the furniture.

“You must prepare for the interviews you are conducting soon,” Spock points out, standing just at the edge of the bed and clasping his hands behind his back. “The Captain and Nurse Chapel are already on their way.”

“Oh, God,” McCoy groans, “that’s still happening?”

Spock tilts his head. “Were you under the impression it was not?”

McCoy rolls over and sits up, raking his fingers through his hair. “No, I just…” He suddenly looks more tired than he did before, and blows out a breath through his lips. “I can’t believe Jim and I got drunk in a bar and fought about stupid shit.” He shakes his head and continues, “I keep gettin’ flashes of the things we said to each other—I thought we were better than fighting about relationships—but I acted like such a jackass.”

“It is likely your petty argument stemmed from issues you were not ready to face,” Spock says. “You are both obviously dear to each other and would not have fought in such a way had you not been internally provoked by some form of compassion.”

McCoy smirks. “Why Mister Spock, in other circumstances I’d say you care about Jim and I making up.”

Spock’s eyes narrow. “Please do not insult me.”

“Of course,” McCoy complies, still sounding sarcastic. “Can you hand me my medkit?” Spock goes to retrieve it off his desk and brings it back over to the bed. McCoy opens it and starts putting together a hypo. “I feel horrible either way.”

Spock thinks of the rest of the crew, and how they were sure to be in the same hung-over state as the doctor. “I am sure you are not the only one.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, evidently understanding what Spock was referencing. “What the hell did Chekov put in that Tribble-Juice? Rohypnol?”

Spock barely resists the temptation from his human half to roll his eyes. “I would certainly hope not.”

McCoy shoots himself with the hypo, then shuffles out of his extra pairs of pants and attempts to slick down his hair. “Okay, this is as good as it’s gonna get.”

He heads to the door when Spock catches up to him. “Doctor,” he says, “Jim holds you in very high regard. I am sure he is just as apologetic as you.”

McCoy looks at him for a moment, then smiles softly. “You know, you’re not as much as an ass as you pretend to be. I can see why he’s in love with you.”

Spock goes still, his eyes wide and his heart thumping at his side. “You believe he is—”

“Oh my _God_ ,” McCoy interrupts, rolling his eyes and whipping open the door. “Just ask him to the prom, Cassanova, I’m sure he’ll say yes.”

*

“Thank you for your time,” Chapel says, smiling brightly. The candidate smiles back and gets up from the table. “We’ll consider you for the position.”

The applicant leaves the conference room, and both Chapel and Jim immediately slump down on the table.

“And then our heads will implode and we will die,” Jim supplies grimly, his forehead pressed into the cool wood. “I don’t think I’ve felt this hungover since I was fourteen and discovered tequila.”

“I don’t think I’ve been this hungover _ever_ ,” Chapel mutters back. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun.”

Jim tries to shoot her a leer, but it turns out to be more of a grimace. “Kinky.”

“Ugh.”

Then, the door slides open. Both Jim and Chapel straighten up, something that sends nausea rolling through Jim’s stomach, but he relaxes slightly when he sees who it is.

“You came,” Jim says, happiness flooding his chest despite everything.

“I did,” Bones responds gruffly, taking a seat on the other side of Chapel. “Who’s coming in next?”

“Your shirt is on backwards,” she comments.

“And inside out,” Jim points out helpfully.

“Who’s coming next?” Bones repeats, sounding irritated now.

“Geoffrey M’Benga,” Chapel reads. “Ooh, he interned on Old Vulcan.”

Bones suddenly looks very concerned. “Does he have pointed ears?”

“I don’t know,” Chapel huffs. “I’m meeting him when you’re meeting him.”

“Don’t get snappy with me, missy,” Bones says, pointing a finger just between her eyes. “I’m just as hungover as you are.”

It’s a wonder, Jim thinks, that anything gets done in his Sickbay with these two in charge.

The next candidate steps through, presumably Geoffrey M’Benga. He looks nice and neat, and he holds himself perfectly straight in that way customary to Vulcans. But he doesn’t have curved ears, so Jim guesses that’s a point in his favor.

Ha. Point. Ears.

The interview gets started, and Jim lets Bones and Chapel take over. They prod and poke M’Benga with various questions and medical scenarios, and every time M’Benga provides answers that seem smart enough to Jim. He glances across the table and sees Bones’ eyebrows climbing higher and higher throughout the interview, but he’s not sure if that’s a good sign or not.

“I think that’s all we need,” Chapel says eventually. “Thank you for your time, we will consider you for—”

“You’re hired,” Bones cuts her off.

“What?” Chapel says.

“What?” M’Benga says.

“What?” Jim says.

“You’re hired,” Bones says again, shrugging one shoulder. “You’re more qualified than the other applicants, you’ve had time in the field, and you can act well under pressure. Now, I don’t know if that comes from working with those stuck-up Vulcans, but if you can take it from them you sure as hell can take it from him.” He jabs his thumb across the table at Jim. “Report back to me tomorrow morning and we’ll get you settled before we ship out.”

Then, he turns to look at Chapel and Jim. “Anyone got a problem with that?”

She shrugs. “I think you have good organizational skills. You’d do great.”

Jim beams and offers him a thumbs up. “Welcome to Team _Enterprise_!”

Bones huffs at the name and Chapel rolls her eyes. M’Benga looks vaguely confused but smiles anyway and says, “Thank you, sir.”

He gathers his things and leaves, a little skip to his step. Jim thinks it’s adorable, like watching a five-year-old you just adopted go off to play with his friends. (Maybe he should stop thinking of his crew in fatherly terms. Eh, he’s probably still a little drunk.)

“That was easy,” Chapel admits. “Now if you gentlemen would excuse me, I need to go throw up in a wastebasket.”  She rises and exits quietly with a soft swoosh of the door.

For a moment, Jim and Bones just look at each other.

“I’m sorry I steamrolled you,” Jim sighs.

“I’m sorry I called you a slut,” Bones says at the same time.

“And a mouth breather.”

Bones nods. “And a mouth breather.”

“And a corn-fed hick.”

Bones shoots him a wry glance. “I’m not apologizing for that one.”

“Fair.” He chews on his lower lip and looks at his hands as he says, “You should have told me I was overstepping my bounds. I only wanted to make things easier for you because I know how stressed you get. I never meant to barge in or micromanage your department—you’re the best CMO in the ‘fleet, I should have trusted you.”

“Nah,” Bones says, shaking his head. “You’re right—I do get overwhelmed, and sometimes I don’t talk about my feelings when I need to. But maybe this M’Benga kid will do me some good. It sounds like he’s got his shit together.”

“Like a Vulcan?” Jim teases.

“You need to talk to Spock, Jim,” Bones presses, not taking the bait. “You need to ask him out. It’s cruel to keep dragging him on like this.”

Jim’s chest twinges in guilt. He was right. It wasn’t fair to keep leading Spock on, for either party. But because Jim can’t resist making Bones grow gray hairs, he pouts and whines, “But that means we’ll never have _our_ great love affair.”

Bones rolls his eyes but smiles. “Kid, our great love affair died last night after my third shot of Tribble-Juice.”

“I’m confiscating every last ounce,” Jim says, suddenly serious. “It’s getting destroyed.”

“Never again,” Bones agrees.

*

Back on the docked ship, Spock is walking the through the science labs, checking over the inventory of chemicals when Jim finds him. He looks decidedly better than when he did the last time Spock saw him, which was half-hanging off the bed of the hotel with his clothes half on. Now Jim looks clean and respectable, like any prime captain of Starfleet should appear. His expression, however, is less put-together.

“Captain.”

“Commander.” Jim nods, then steps closer, chewing on his bottom lip. His skin appears to be more flushed than normal, the pink hue causing the blue of his eyes to become more noticeably attractive. “Can I talk to you?”

Like he always does whenever his feelings try to overrun his senses, Spock resorts to sarcasm. “I believe you already are.”

“Your sass isn’t going to help this get anywhere.” 

“Captain, please,” Spock replies, “Vulcans do not sass. We speak the truth in blunt and explicit manners.”

The blonde shakes his head. “Why do you have to be such a—” He cuts himself off, lets out a breath and starts again. “Look. Most of the time, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Really?” Spock widens his eyes in mock-surprise. “I had no indication of this.”

Jim lets out a breath of frustration and Spock tries not to smirk. “Can you let me finish?”

“You mean your intention was not to tell me of your lack of experience in most command positions?”

“Okay,” Jim hisses, “ _first_ of all, I’m a _great_ captain and you know it. Second, what I’m trying to say without your blunt and explicit-ness is the reason I’m a great captain is because of you!”

Spock fights down the instant mix of pride and pleasure that rushes into his chest. Then, his logical side considers something. “Are you transferring me to a command position on another vessel?”

“ _What?_ ” Jim balks. “N-no! Wait, you don’t want to leave The Family, do you?”

Spock tilts his head. “The Family?”

Jim suddenly looks bashful. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes darting down. “It’s what I call our crew. At least in my head.”

“I was under the impression that you referred to us as Team _Enterprise_.”

“That too,” Jim nods, “but The Family is more intimate. It’s mainly just the bridge crew, not the entire ship. But if you want to transfer—”

“I do not want to transfer,” Spock says quickly.

“Then why—”

“You said—”

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Jim says loudly, throwing his head back and tugging on his hair. “I’m _trying_ to ask you out but you keep making everything difficult!”

Spock stares at him and opens his mouth, but no words come. Jim looks frustrated for a moment before he hastily continues, thrusting the PADD in his hands under Spock’s nose. “I know I’ve been kind of jerk to lead you on for so long, and I know I’ve been avoiding my feelings toward you, but I want to make our relationship official. I’m done running, I’m done being afraid. I want to be with you. I even filled out one of those stupid love contracts that Starfleet makes all senior officers sign.”

Spock glances down at the document pulled up on the PADD and his eyebrows pull together. “That,” he corrects, “is an official form disclosing a relationship between Starfleet personnel that is legally required of senior officers. In no way is it considered or referred to as a _love contract_.”

Jim pouts. “Calling it an official relationship disclosure form isn’t any fun.”

Spock looks at him flatly. “Regulation is not supposed to be considered fun, Jim.”

The human huffs in aggravation and clips, “Do you want to date me or not?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Spock snaps, surprising them both with the ferocity of his tone. Then, a smile so bright and brilliant breaks across Jim’s face that, _Surak help him_ , Spock feels suddenly dizzy.

“Well,” Jim says, his eyes sparkling and full of mischief, “sign on the dotted line, Mister Spock.”

“Your rhyme is childish and illogical.” But he takes the stylus out of Jim’s other hand and signs the PADD. Jim’s smile is infectious, but Spock prevents his lips from showing any happiness by leaning forward and pressing them against Jim’s.


End file.
